Broken Cycle
by ArcherHana
Summary: Henry is once again too confused.


**Broken cycle**

Many thanks to my beta Masquerading as Quality for everything!

* * *

Mom didn't do this every night anymore. On his own insistence, it lessened as he grew older, but she still tucked him at least thrice a week. Tonight was one of these nights.

"All ready?"

"I've showered, dried my hair, brushed my teeth and made sure the taps don't leak."

Fingers brushed his hair away from his face. Henry couldn't help but see this gesture as her testing his words, checking whether he was telling the truth. The idea sounded slightly silly, but only slightly.

Mom nodded and patted his head, satisfied by his obedience. What else could it be?

She awarded him with a brief smile – a bit frozen, not like the one she used to give him, so very soothing, and happy, the ones she showered him with before that evening he asked her _the_ question that had changed everything.

Henry lowered himself deeper into his blankets, resting the fluffy blanket on top of his chin. Mom always laid the blanket lower, never how he wanted it: hiding a part of his face.

She did exactly what he expected. She sighed, as if showing him that she was displeased, as she always was now. No matter how hard he tried – or didn't – Mom was never satisfied and could always find flaws.

"Henry, I've told you many times now it's not healthy to bury your face beneath Spiderman. Or any other hero."

She placed the blanket a bit more forcefully than necessary on his chest, and the chilly air hit his face. "You could suffocate."

Of course, Mom always voiced her displeasure. She never did things by halves.

Henry stared at the little necklace she wore – this one without that beautiful ring – and nodded once. He was a bit tired and didn't want to see the coldness in her eyes. It would sap the courage that had taken days to collect.

Mom sighed again. The necklace came closer and the mattress dipped.

"Don't be like that, dear. I'm just worried about you." Henry knew she wasn't referring to this night, but the whole week, following that question. Things had changed between them. But to be honest, it was Mom that had changed, not him: she became even more distant and mysterious. He even overheard her talking to Archie, yesterday, and even when he returned an hour later, her hands still held the phone to her ears. She never talked that long with anybody, really.

The smile Mom gave him was less guarded, and seemed sad for a split second. That was another strange thing: Mom was always so sad and guilty these past seven days, but Henry couldn't find out what had caused it. Surely not the question about fairytales? Or himself? Or him pushing a bit about that fairytale about the Queen with the long, black hair and dramatic clothing?

Doubt returned again. Did Mom truly love him? Sure, sometimes he felt happy – if a bit pampered and a bit constricted by her presence and the constant attention and care – but he never felt any kind of connection between them, that Mom too felt content and happy.

"I can't help it, dear. This is how every parent feels." She leaned a bit closer.

"Especially if one is the mother of such a special boy." She almost whispered, as if she was sharing a secret that only Henry was allowed to know.

For a moment, Henry wanted to believe her, wanted to believe she meant 'special' in the positive way, not the way that woman who looked too much like Mom sneered at the good guys, the way she lied, baited, always used magic to get her way.

His face must have shown _something_, because Mom did something she hadn't done in weeks – she leaned down and enveloped him in a hug.

Shocked would be an understatement. He had absolutely no idea how to react. A year ago, he would have automatically hugged back, welcomed the warmth and the pleasant scent that only Mom had. Sometimes, they competed who could hug more tightly – a habit they'd developed. But now, their relationship had changed and it had became so tense and uncomfortable.

A week ago, he would have awkwardly tried to circle his arms around her, ignoring these prickles, sentences from stories.

But, now...

Henry stared at his ceiling and allowed Mom to take the lead. He wrinkled his nose. Funny, that nice scent wasn't there. Well, Mom wasn't wearing any make-up either. Perhaps it was that.

He willed his mind to calm down and suppress this new feeling whispering to him that Mom wasn't who she was, and would harm him in the future, if not during the day, then in his dreams. He was becoming quite good at suppressing his thoughts.

Yet another sigh passed Mom's lips and she withdrew. She kept her hands on his shoulders. Henry could feel her almost pleading to him silently to talk, or at least look at her, but he ignored her. He mentally counted the numbers of black shoes he'd seen today at school. It was a bit more difficult than normal with Mom so intensely focused on him.

His view became a bit shaded and Henry feared – for a very, very small moment – that Mom would hurt him. A hand would smother his mouth and nose, fingers would trail to his chest to remove the only beating thing in it, just as stories and a nightmare had once showed to him. But just as quickly, he knew Mom wouldn't do this. He blamed the tiredness and his over-imagination and reading his book too much, especially the parts about the Queen that behaved so much like Mom sometimes...

Yes, it must be those things. He should just close his eyes and sleep and hope that his face didn't show that split second of terror and panic – another reason why he absolutely shouldn't look in those eyes. Or face. Or anywhere near her, actually.

Closing his eyes it was, then.

His ears picked up the slight rustle of clothes and his blankets, and the feathers in the mattress separating from the dip.

Henry resisted the urge to hide his face under the blanket. Instead, his toes curled and wakeful ears listened to retreating steps.

"'Night, Mom." He had no idea why this plopped out of his mouth. He must be very tired to use such an informal phrase. Mom always insisted that he use proper language and grammar.

The silence made his heart skip several beats. He fisted his fingers and prepared himself for the possible chance of her displeasure.

"Good night, Henry." The door didn't close. Perhaps she was contemplating her punishment?

But after a long moment, the familiar click reached his ears and separated mother from son. He could have imagined it, but he thought he heard a hint of ease and – was it wise to hope this? – happiness in her voice?

Yep, tonight was a weird night. He only hoped it would be devoid of the nightmares where Mom appeared in more and more often. The nightmares that, more and more often, featured the same woman who tucked him in thrice a week.


End file.
